


Rain

by doomcanary



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's magic is taking him over, and Arthur is running out of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain

Arthur tightens his arms around Merlin, feeling him shaking with fear and the raw force coursing through him. His face is hidden in Arthur's shoulder, despite the unwelcoming chill of mail; the rain is soaking both of them, a hard spattering downpour that rings on Arthur's pauldron and hammers on Merlin's back. Behind Merlin, a huddled village hisses and smokes, half of its thatched houses in ruins. The smell of burning is so strong not even the rain can batter it into the earth. At the far end of the street, torchlight glints on Gawain's armour as he directs the knights to salvage what they can for the villagers.

Merlin's fingers are wound tight into Arthur's sleeve, rain-sodden cloth locking against itself; Arthur couldn't dislodge him if he tried, and wouldn't try. A wave of tremors passes over Merlin and his head moves feverishly; he makes a choking sound, a swallowed-off “Ah -”. He's trying to say Arthur's name.

“Merlin,” he murmurs, close to the chilled shell of an ear. “The rain put the fire out. The houses are steaming now, I can hear them hissing. The people are fine, Merlin, it's all right. Everything's going to be fine.”

Gawain is an intelligent man and a loyal knight, and that's why he's keeping the other knights busy at the other end of the village despite the fact he has no spoken order from Arthur to do so. They are alone on the edge of the forest, Merlin drowning in the tide of power and Arthur anchoring him. For six long months now it's been this way; when the crisis comes Merlin moves the kingdom itself to save the day, and after it, Arthur is the one who brings him back to his humanity again. What scares him is that every time, it takes more and more to reach Merlin and call him back. At first it took only a word, or a touch on his shoulder; Merlin's body would be locked, rigid with tension, and at Arthur's touch he would start explosively, and something in the air around them would clear. The heavy, oppressive taste in the air that Arthur has learned to associate with Merlin's magic would evaporate; suddenly the sky would clear, and the strange distant quality to the light, like the hours before a thunderstorm, would dissipate. In Stannold and the forest near Jedborough that had been all it took. At Elmfield, with the blank eyes of the abandoned manor house staring down at them and the reek of corpses still in their throats, he had had to take Merlin by the arm and lead him away. And over time, in the Fould valley, in the hills, on the winding border road, those simple touches had grown old; they had worn away and become too weak to serve.

Now, Merlin is trembling and the sky is emptying itself like a man who's bleeding to death, and Arthur can't make either of them stop.

“Merlin,” he says again. He shakes Merlin by one shoulder, never letting go of him for a moment. “Merlin. Come on. You have to fight this.”

But the rain, hammering on his head, plastering his hair and dripping from every twig and leaf, is the only answer he'll get. The deer on the road here that lifted their heads and calmly watched Merlin pass are his answer too. It's there in the trees that have bent to a single word, the living rock that has shattered when Merlin calls. Merlin _is_ fighting it, as he shakes and tries to speak; but the battle he's fighting is too big for anyone. The power he wields is too much for a human soul to bear. Arthur has never known anyone as great of heart as Merlin, but even that is not enough. He aches bitterly, a sharper pain than any knight he's ever lost, to see such a spirit fighting and fighting and constantly losing ground. Merlin is dissolving, becoming something inhuman, and Arthur is running out of time. He squeezes his eyes shut and pulls Merlin close; in the back of his mouth he tastes burning and the rain.

 

For a moment, his mind leaps back to the morning; to the moment when he'd looked up in the dawn-tinted mist from packing his saddlebag, and realised Merlin had gone. Gawain had instantly noticed the tension in him; his hands fell still, and his grey eyes focused on Arthur with calm intensity.

Arthur shook his head. “Carry on breaking camp,” he said. “I'll find him.”

When he did find Merlin it was half way to the brook, standing between open trees; the mist was pale around him, bluish as light slowly gleamed into the day, and he was wandering aimlessly in it, a few steps this way and a few steps that. He had the air of a child in a circle of beloved friends, uncertain who to greet first. His hands were out, reaching out to the shifting vapours in the air; and gusting wisps brushed over Merlin, reaching back as if blowing across a path. But the air was still and cool on Arthur's skin.

Arthur went quietly over to him, and turned him by the shoulder. Merlin's eyes were wide, the pupils pinpricks; he didn't seem to see Arthur at all. Arthur took off one glove, and curled his hand around the back of Merlin's neck.

“Merlin,” he said quietly. “Merlin, it's morning. We're breaking camp. You're travelling with us. Come home.”

Merlin didn't react for a moment; but slowly his vacancy became stiffness, and the focus returned to his eyes. His hands came up, groping for Arthur's arms; Arthur let him hold on, though his grip was bruising.

“It's so... so _free_ ,” he said, hardly more than a whisper. “So open... the air all through it, I can hardly... I don't want to be meat, Arthur, I don't want to walk and breathe and -”

His face crumpled, and Arthur tightened his grip, pulled Merlin into a rough embrace. He rubbed slow, reassuring circles on Merlin's back, in the hollow of his waist; stirring the soft, madder-red linen mindlessly round and round. A long time passed before Merlin pulled away.

“Yes,” he said sadly. “It is dawn, isn't it.”

 

Merlin is freezing now, no warmth left in him, between the inhuman energy of the magic and the pounding rain. Arthur, cocooned in his padding and armour, is warm as summer; he drags them under a tree and wrestles with the sodden, slippery leather straps that hold his pauldron on. He strips off his chainmail and the padded jack beneath, leaving a damp linen shirt and the warmth of his body. Merlin leans into the tree trunk while he does it, as if he can't tell it's not Arthur he's propped against; Arthur takes him back ungently, pulling him so hard he stumbles and nearly falls. He wraps himself around Merlin as if the warlock were a child, lays his hand once more on the bare, wet skin of his neck. He's never been so thankful that his hands are big, and always warm.

“Merlin,” he says, and his voice sounds rough even to his own ears. “Merlin, please. What are we – Merlin, what will Gaius do without you? What about Gwen? Come on, Merlin, you're here, right here, I can feel you standing here, don't you remember how to get back inside your skin?”

Merlin's breathing harshens, as if he's in pain; Arthur crushes him tight against his chest, so tight it has to be hurting him more. His mouth is pressed against Merlin's ear; so much water is running out of the dark curls of hair above it that Arthur could almost put out his tongue and drink.

“Merlin,” he says, helplessly. “Merlin, come on. I – Merlin, I -”

Merlin twitches in his arms, and Arthur's heart leaps; and then tries to burst through his ribs as Merlin's breath sighs out, and halts. The pause where he should be breathing in again stretches, and stretches, and stretches, and nothing comes.

Arthur throws Merlin to the ground, and crushes their mouths together, forcing air into his lungs. He pulls back, takes a single whooping breath for himself, and does it again. His mind is a frantic, wordless prayer; images of writhing mist and fleeing does and sodden black hair, and Merlin's wide, innocent eyes.

Merlin breathes in.

Arthur gives a sob of relief, and his strength deserts him; leaves him hanging there, his forehead against Merlin's cheek. Merlin makes a tiny, distant sound; like someone waking, unwillingly. His hand stirs on the ground and drops again; Arthur laces his fingers into it. Merlin breathes in again, deeper and stronger, and Arthur presses his lips together, fighting back tears of relief. Water drips off him onto Merlin, and trickles from Merlin to the ground; and breaths move between them, a slow coming and going of air.

Merlin's hand jerks in Arthur's, weakly fighting to move; he lets it go, and finds that it lifts and reaches for him. It comes to rest against his arm, and Merlin's head turns, his eyelids fluttering. Arthur feels his heart trying to choke him all over again; slowly, disbelieving, he leans down, and brushes his lips over Merlin's again. Merlin's hand tightens on his arm, and his lips part. Arthur feels himself shattering; it's real. He holds every last piece of himself in balance as he brushes one more soft kiss on Merlin's mouth.

A shock jolts his whole body when Merlin's response is the dart of a warm, sharp tongue against his own. His eyes start open; and like clouds clearing the sky, Merlin's open too. He smiles at Arthur; he's sodden and half-dead on soaking ground, and yet his face is full of that incredible soul. Arthur can only stare, shaken apart, his breath coming shallow and his head light.

“Couldn't...” Merlin's voice is hoarse, as if he hasn't spoken for days, and barely audible. “Couldn't see you. Didn't know where to come.”

Understanding is an ocean wave of its own, catching Arthur yet once more and throwing him back on the ground. As gently as he can, he leans down and kisses Merlin, feels the warmth hidden in his mouth; feels Merlin try to push back, and give up, exhausted.

“Tomorrow,” he promises softly, to a widening of Merlin's smile. “Tomorrow, once you're on your feet again.”

Tomorrow he will tell Merlin that his prince is in love with him; tomorrow he will swear Gawain to secrecy, and make him the first of the Prince's knights. For now, he kneels and pulls Merlin into his arms. He carries his love – his warlock, his future counsel, the most powerful being Albion has ever known – back to the warmth and safety of a simple thatched cottage. Above him the night is vast, full of a gentle, waning pattering of rain.


End file.
